


Criminal Minds Armada

by Saathi1013



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Flash Fic, Multi, POV Third Person Limited, Psychological Trauma, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 16:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7625104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Criminal Minds flash fiction.</p><p>As it turns out, I have a <i>lot</i> of ships for this show.  Last year, I randomized a list, attached a number and a single-word prompt, letting friends on tumblr pick what I'd write, mostly extemporaneously.   Each chapter is a different pairing, with chapter titles indicating the pairing and prompt.  Prompters are credited in the notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dirty Talk; Garcia/Hotch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For eileenpaints.

Garcia must be having a good day; her first words this morning are “Kneel, mortal supplicants, as you approach the font of divine wisdom!”

Hotch flips to the next page of the report, “Not in these slacks,” he says, and glances up at the silence that fills the plane.  He gives an incremental smile.  “What, it’s a new suit,” he says, gratified by JJ’s suppressed smirk.  “What’s the news, Garcia?”

“I almost forgot you _had_ a sense of humor,” Rossi comments later, _sotto voce_.  Hotch is too self-aware to protest that he hasn’t been _that_ bad; he has, but it’s not as if he hasn’t had good reason.  The team’s been understanding, but maybe it’s time to find something to offset the weight he’s been carrying in his chest.

Aaron stops by the office when the case is over, shooing everyone else off to their homes to get some sleep.  Predictably, there’s a light at the end of the hall when he steps off the elevator.  “Hey,” he says, pushing open the door, earning Garcia’s surprise, then a delighted smile.  “The case is over, we’re off the clock.”

“I know,” she says, shrugging, “I just– I like knowing that you – _all_ of you – get home safe.  Hacking NORAD is kind of frowned upon, so I save that for special occasions.”

Aaron finds himself chuckling, something effervescent and light about how it builds behind his ribs.  “You know, Penelope,” he says, letting his good humor linger in his eyes, “you can ask again, if you like.”

“What?” she says, a tint of color in her cheeks.  She always did get a little flustered whenever he used her first name.

“I never really liked this suit,” he replies, pleased when she understands what he means immediately.  She sits up in her chair, amusement and a spark of  _sureness_  in her gaze that sends more of that reckless warmth through his chest.

“Agent _Hotchner_ ,” Penelope says, feigning a scandalized tone.  “Am I going to have to watch what I say around you from now on?”

“Probably,” he replies.  “But you don’t have to start tonight.”

(He does, in fact, find himself on his knees later.)


	2. Quiet; Morgan/Reid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For iamgwenslongroadhome.

They each have a tendency to _talk._  To fill space, to pass time, to share information

(or totally irrelevant trivia

– _physics_ is not irrelevant; _sports scores_ are irrelevant

– don’t start in on how sports is supposedly eroding higher education again, Reid, c’mon)

to conceal and to reveal, to pry and to prod…  And, throughout everything else, to _connect_.

_Except_.

There are times when even the most extensive vocabularies are insufficient, when voices falter, when connection needs more than ephemeral speech.

In the solidity of touch, they discover a new language together, building its syntax in sinew and bone.


	3. Triggers; Greenaway/Hotch/Reid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For withthesecinderedbones.

“Not everyone’s an unsub,” she’d told Hotch once.  It’s something they’ve all told themselves when the nights feel too long, too dark.  Reassurance that the world they defend is not simply a thin veneer of civility over roiling savagery.

Elle had known it was a lie when she’d said it.  Human psychology is such that everyone has their trigger; it might take more time and effort to find, with some, but it’s always there.  Delve deep enough, and there is a place with an inherent absence of light.

Reid had glimpsed it in the cold sting of a needle; Hotch had tasted it in the hot rush of rage.  She heard about Hankel, heard about Foyet, and each time found herself calling.

“I’m here,” she said to their voicemails.  Sending a flare into the night.  

She doesn’t hear from Hotch, but Reid emails once a month.  She tells him about the consulting firm she works with; he passes along news from the team.

_We’ve got a case in New York,_ he tells her.

_Where are you staying?_ she asks.

Elle meets Reid in the bar; they drink whiskey this time instead of gin.  She walks him to his room, stealing a kiss in the elevator and his keycard while he’s distracted.  He tries to be sweet, kiss her one last time before she goes, but seems to have forgotten that she plays _dirty_.  She doesn’t intend to leave just yet.

The door unlocks easily while Reid’s hands are otherwise occupied, and she shoves him in.  “Elle,” he says, her name half a moan as she pins him against the full-length mirror just inside the door, “Elle, _wait._ ”

She stops, shifting away.  “I’m sorry,” she says, feeling stupid.  “If you don’t want–”

“No,” he says, sounding apologetic as he smooths a strand of hair out of her face.  “I just.  I’m _sharing._ ”

There’s a flash of light in the mirror, and Elle spins to see the bathroom door open, revealing Hotch, who looks as surprised to see her as she is to see him.  “…hi,” she tries weakly.

“Hi,” he says.  “I– I got your messages.  When.”  He glances down, self-conscious, and it’s only then that she notices he’s only wearing a towel, a scattered array of keloid lines across over his torso.  “Well, _after_.  I meant to thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says.  He looks away again, brow furrowing as he spots the faded ridge of scar tissue on her own chest.  It’s not often her blouses are unbuttoned so low.

She steps back, bumping into Reid, whose hands fall to bracket her hips.  “Um,” he tries.  “I’m sorry, we should–”  She can feel his anxiety in the tense, trembling line of his body behind her.

“Were you two–?” Hotch asks, getting it _finally,_  the surprise of seeing her wearing off.

“Well,” she hedges.  

“Kind of?” Reid hazards.

Hotch’s gaze drops again, darkening a fraction before his expression smooths out into a mask of solicitous good humor.  “I should probably put some pants on and give you the room, then,” he says, stepping sideways towards his open suitcase.

_“Well,”_ she says again, trying for humor.  Behind her, Reid’s breath catches, and his hands tighten convulsively on her hips.  It’s enough to send a humming rush of anticipation down her spine.

_To hell with it,_ she thinks.  Elle links her fingers with one of Reid’s hands and steps forward, reaching for Hotch with her other.  Hotch spares a split second to glance over her shoulder at Reid, and whatever he sees there must be enough, because he meets her halfway.

They each have messy edges, places where they’ve broken and reshaped themselves into something hardier, rougher.  Hotch isn’t happy when he feels pinned; Reid has limited mobility in one leg.  Elle doesn’t like anyone’s fingers close to her scar – though Reid’s careful kisses are fine.

Each of them: flotsam that escaped monsters from the inky black of the sea, who almost drowned in the depths and then, through some merciful chance, returned to the safety of the shore.

They leave a light on, in case someone finds themselves adrift again.


	4. First; Hotch/Reid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For roane72.

He steadies his breathing, forces his fingers to unclench.   _It’s okay,_ he thinks. _Inhale.  Exhale.  It’s fine._

And it _is,_ it’s just. _Overwhelming_.  He’s still half-hard; shoulders shaky from the prolonged prep session, he wonders if _any_ amount of time would have prepared him for this.  

“You okay?” he hears, behind him.

He breathes – inhale, exhale – and finally, _finally_ unwinds.  “Yeah,” he says, starting to believe it.

Warm hands smooth down his sides, curl around his hips.  “I’m going to move now,” Reid warns; then _does_ , careful but sure.

Aaron’s nerves are like thermite, burning through his bones.


	5. Threshold; Garcia/Morgan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For withthesecinderedbones.

They have a standing date on the last Saturday of every month – or: “the very next time we’re in the same tri-state area, Garcia, and that’s a _promise_ ,” as he’d told her in the hospital.

It’s not really a _date_ -date, they’ve told significant others throughout the years, with varying success.  “It’s a chance to dress up for funsies and spend time with a good friend who’s usually just a voice on the phone talking about corpses, and:  _ick,_ ” she’d explained once.

This is why they both end up dressed to the nines on a Tuesday, just after she gets the go-ahead to stop taking the last of her six _thousand_  post-surgery medications and have actual alcohol again like a grownup.  She’s careful, though, riding the front edge of buoyant warmth all the way to his car at the end of the night.  He walks her to her building with the same solicitous care he’s taken all evening, her hand tucked into his elbow.

The closer they get, the more her steps seem to falter.  She’s gripping her keys just a little too tight.  “Come in with me?” she blurts, all in a rush.

“ _Yeah,”_ Derek replies without hesitation.  When she’d been ~~dying~~ in surgery, he’d sworn that ~~if~~ when she got out, he’d stop wasting time.  If she’d let him.

She unlocks the door to her room, and turns in the doorway, about to say something.  He kisses her first.  And damn, _damn_ , they should have been doing this sooner.

Later – _much_ later – when they are tangled together in her bed, flushed and drowsy, Penelope yawns hugely.  “You know,” she says, “ever since… ever since Battle, people have been really, really nice.  My desk was covered in cards when I got back, someone from the team always seems to be checking in, bringing me coffee, driving me home.  When they drop me off, they always leave me at the front door, and every time – _every time_ – I freeze up.  I’m afraid to turn around.  You know.  In case.”  She huffs a little.  “It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid,” Derek says.  “You’ve been through an intense trauma, it’s perfectly understandable.”  A thought occurs to him.  “Wait, is that why you asked me to come in?”

“Kind of?” she says, and he can hear the mirth in her voice.  “But don’t think I’m complaining about everything else,” she adds hastily, looking up to give him an earnest look.

“Oh, you _better_ not be complaining about anything else, baby girl,” he says, tapping her on the nose with his index finger.  “Wish you’d said something sooner, though.”

She snaps her teeth at his finger, grinning playfully.  “Do you want a do-over?”

He pretends to think about it.


	6. Ruffled; Morgan/Prentiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For tygermama.

Prentiss has always been so composed, so collected.  Even when upset, she had a titanium core that never bent.  It had been one of the things that had made losing her so devastating a blow.

Only she could return from the dead without a single sign that she’s gone through her own personal hell and come back.  Her hands are still steady, her gaze is still sure, her hair is sleek, and her shoes aren’t scuffed.

Morgan can’t look at her without her placid assurance _rankling_.  So he tries not to look at her.  He retreats to the office he’d abandoned in favor of retaining proximity to the team.

Emily notices.  

Hell, _everyone_ notices, and someone must have told her to deal with it.  She finally corners him, shutting his door and standing in front of it like she’s _planted_ there.  He’s halfway across the room to uproot her before she can blink.

 _“Derek,”_ Emily says, reaching out.  Her voice _cracks_.

Then he’s in her arms, fingers tangling in her hair, her mouth opening under his, sloppy and desperate and _real_.

Morgan breaks the kiss only to breathe, their lungs working unsteadily as they lean into one another for balance.  He lets himself look at her.  Her lipstick is smudged as she smiles.

“I missed you, too,” Emily tells him.

**Author's Note:**

> ...and this isn't even close all the ships I had listed, ha.


End file.
